My Beloved Enemy
by Triane
Summary: Another prisoner is found in Marius' dungeon, but how she got there was not coincidence. Songfic for Chris Isaak's 'Wicked Game'. TristanOC.
1. Chapter 1

_The story starts when Arthur and his knights are at Marius Honorius' manor, waiting for the Romans to gather their things and watching Dagonet break into the dungeon. Please review :)_

_Disclaimer: Toril is mine, but nothing else is. _

The faint sound of drums came through the air, rhythmic and pulsing until it seemed to even alter the cadence of their heartbeats. The peasants stopped to listen fearfully before hurrying off to gather their meager belongings, almost stumbling over each other in their haste. The Roman soldiers scanned the sky as if they were trying to see the drummers hovering there, above the trees. Even Arthur's knights and the Roman commander himself looked edgy as they watched Dagonet smash through the stone and plaster barrier at the door of the low hut, several of them adjusting their hold on their weapons. The only one who hadn't changed his expression was Tristan. He watched as Dagonet crashed through the stone and mortar and then kicked the rough wooden door into splinters. He watched as Arthur, Lancelot, Dagonet, Gawain, and several of the filthy priests entered that dark hole and disappeared from view.

After a moment of waging war within himself, Tristan swung off his horse and stood at the door to the dungeon, his expression still not changing. He had no need to go in and was needed more outside, but he felt something pulling at him, something telling him to go in, something that would not be silenced. So with a pointed glance at Bors and Galahad, he strode into the low building behind the other knights, past the instruments of torture, following the stairs down, down into the cool depths below ground. His nose wrinkled slightly, almost imperceptively as he descended and a strong stench became apparent. There was death down below and he grimaced.

Although he was often scorned by the other knights for finding pleasure in dealing death, he took no pleasure in hanging around afterwards. This, combined with the stench and the walls closing so tightly in around him almost caused him to turn back, to escape back to the open air and broad sky where his horse and his hawk were waiting. But that something inside him clenched at the thought of turning back, at not seeing what was down there, so he continued on.

Almost immediately the stairs ended and it opened up into a large chamber, filled with smaller cells sealed with bars. Tristan entered the large chamber in time to see Lancelot pull his sword out of one of the greasy, unkempt men who evidently controlled this underground lair, and he joined the other knights in working his way down the long room, checking each cell for life.

Moving past where Arthur was pulling a young woman from her prison, Tristan walked past several cells where the inhabitants had wasted away into nothing. In the last cell, however, Tristan's gaze was met by a pair of pale, icy blue eyes set in the thin white face of a woman. She was lying on her side angled away from him, her cheek resting on her shoulder. Her gaze was intense, and Tristan blinked. It was almost as if she recognized him, as if she knew he would be the one to find her. His eyes lingered on her face for a moment, on the brown tattoos on her cheekbones, identical to his own, then his curved sword sliced cleanly through the chains holding the cell door in place.

A small groan escaped her lips as he pulled her towards himself and she shook her head. He frowned at her, not understanding, and she raised her arms. Tristan's eyes widened slightly as he saw that she had been tied limb to limb, face to face, with the person who had previously inhabited the cell. His throat clenched and he had to force his features into their usual non-expression.

"There is not enough room in here." Her jaw worked slightly, but she nodded, wrapping her arms around her dead cell mate so that Tristan could pull them both out easily.

Once they were in the bigger chamber Tristan wasted no time in separating the woman from the dead body, and as soon as she was free, she scrambled as far away from the rotting corpse as the walls and her strength would allow, relief etched across her pale face. Tristan sheathed his sword and crouched beside her, moving to pick her up, but she shook her head again.

"I walk out of this hell." Her voice was low and throaty, with an accent he had never heard before. He nodded shortly and helped her to rise, then walked close behind her as she limped painfully towards the stairs, her arms wrapped around her middle, but her head held high.

More than once she stumbled on their way up the stairs, but she pushed Tristan's hands away and continued unassisted, albeit more slowly and painfully. Tristan could hear her breathing becoming laboured, and he had almost made up his mind to just sweep her up into his arms when they reached the surface and the open air. When they had made it several steps away from the low doorway, she breathed in the fresh air and sighed, slumping against his chest.

Tristan lowered her gently to the ground where she leaned comfortably against him, her back to his chest, her head on his shoulder. He motioned to Jols, who was there instantly with a water skin. The woman sputtered and coughed as the water first touched her parched throat, but she gulped it down gratefully, handing the empty skin back to the squire with a whispered thanks. She then tipped her head back against Tristan's shoulder so the sun touched her face, and closed her eyes with another sigh.

"Is the boy Lucan out?" Tristan scanned the crowd for a second.

"He is with Dagonet." She nodded.

"And Guinevere?"

"With Arthur." Another nod.

"Good." As she enjoyed the feeling of the sun on her face, Tristan took several seconds to study the woman he had freed. She was thin from lack of food, but not desperately so. After a few good meals, he realized, she would be beautiful. Her face was slim, but not pinched; with smooth, creamy skin, a full pink mouth, a small, pert nose with a small scattering of freckles across it, high cheekbones with their tattoos, and eyelashes so long that they lay softly almost to her cheeks. Tristan found himself wishing that she would open her eyes so that he could see the colour again, and shook his head slightly, switching his gaze away from her face, past her long blonde hair, and towards the woods on the other side of the clearing. He didn't need to see her eyes.

A movement in the trees caught his gaze for a moment and he tensed, only to relax when he saw that it was a great white owl taking wing from a branch and swooping down close to the ground to disappear out of sight. He blinked once, and then turned his attention back to the woman in his arms.

Remembering the way she had gripped her middle as they left the dungeon, he gently adjusted the tattered rags she was wearing to see if he could find a visible injury. When he saw her abdomen and ribs, his jaw clenched and his eyes flashed. Her entire stomach was covered with angry red cuts, all obviously infected. He could feel her eyes on him and raised his head to meet her gaze. _Ice blue. Like a winter sky_. Her eyes captivated him and he couldn't tear his gaze away as she spoke.

"I had only been down there for a few days...a week at the most. There is no day or night underground...only candlelight and the routine of the priests. Guinevere has been a prisoner for longer than I...she knows not how long. Lucan was taken only a day or so after me. They would not have lasted much longer." Tristan nodded and stood, lifting her easily in his arms and carrying her towards the wagon where Dagonet was already settling the ones she called Lucan and Guinevere.

"What is your name?" She blinked once, slowly, her piercing gaze never leaving his face.

"Toril." He nodded and set her gently in the wagon where Dagonet then transferred her to a pile of furs by the wall.

"Her stomach." The giant nodded silently, his gaze pitying as he looked at Toril. In one smooth motion Tristan mounted his dappled horse and moved to where Toril was looking out the side of the wagon, her hand pressed to her stomach and her blue eyes pained. Tristan's jaw clenched again.

"Dagonet will take care of you while I am gone. You are safe now." Her pale eyes slid shut, blocking the light emanating them. Her face relaxed.

"I know." With one last lingering look at her face, Tristan galloped away.


	2. Chapter 2

He didn't have a chance to see Toril again until they had stopped for the night in a large grove of trees. After caring for his horse, Tristan immediately made his way to the wagon and climbed in beside Dagonet, who, with the Roman's wife, was sitting beside Lucan, tending to his broken arm and high fever now that the wagon had stopped moving. Arthur had been in earlier that afternoon to reset Guinevere's dislocated fingers, and now the Woad woman was sleeping lightly. Beyond her was Toril, her face even whiter and her eyes shut. She was now wearing a pair of breeches and a tunic that Tristan had found in the bottom of his pack and had tossed to Dagonet earlier that day as he rode past he wagon during a scouting run.

Dagonet made way for him and Tristan moved to where Toril was, his back bent under the low ceiling of the wagon. He knelt beside her, gently placing a hand on her forehead and surprising himself with his gentleness. His eyebrow jumped slightly as he felt her skin burn under his fingertips. Her eyes flickered open and she swallowed. Her voice was hoarse.

"The infection is spreading." Tristan nodded.

"Your wounds need to be cauterized." Toril nodded as well, taking a deep breath and wincing.

"Outside. Where I can see the sky." Tristan turned and met Dagonet's gaze. The other man nodded, tucking a blanket around Lucan and then sliding out of the wagon, taking another blanket with him to spread on the ground near the fire. With as much care as he could manage, Tristan gathered Toril in his arms and made his way outside as well, walking swiftly towards the fire where the other knights were gathered and setting her gently on the blanket. When he sat back, her gaze met his.

"This is all that ails me...when the wounds are cauterized, I will heal swiftly, even by morning. It has been so before." Tristan's expression didn't change.

"Even without having food for a week?" Toril's lips twitched.

"Even without food for a month. I will be almost full strength by morning, I promise you. All I need is to be free of infection, and then to sleep without interruption." Tristan nodded shortly, his jaw clenching at the thought of her being so ill treated. He switched his gaze to the dancing flames for a moment to collect his thoughts, and when he looked back, Toril's gaze had softened.

"You cannot change what has been. You can only try to control what is." Tristan's eyebrows flicked slightly, wondering how it was that she could read him so well when even his fellow knights didn't have a clue. His thoughts were interrupted when Dagonet crouched beside him with two daggers, bandages, salve, and a strip of leather in his hands. He handed the leather to Toril, who stoically placed it in her mouth, bit down slightly, and then adjusted it for a better feel. Tristan mentally shook his head at her apparent carelessness, and then met the gaze of the other men sitting around the fire. Arthur, Lancelot, Bors, and Gawain met it squarely, but Galahad swallowed and stood, leaving the warmth of the fire to stand by his horse, away from Toril and what was about to happen.

Tristan looked back at Dagonet, who offered one of the daggers to him, hilt first. He looked down at Toril, trying to decide whether he should help Dagonet cauterize. What he saw in Toril's eyes nearly stopped his heart before causing it to break in half for her. Fear.

So he adjusted his position to sit with crossed legs beyond Toril's shoulder as Arthur took the other dagger from Dagonet's outstretched hand. Toril reached over her head to grab Tristan's hands in a surprisingly strong grip, and then nodded to Dagonet who lifted the tunic up as Tristan had done earlier that day. A collective intake of breath arose from the men watching as the extent of her torture was revealed, and Gawain's gaze flew to the trees as if trying to decide whether or not to join Galahad. Arthur and Dagonet silently heated the blades of the daggers in the fire until they were red hot, then Dagonet gently place his hand on Toril's arm.

"Ready?" Her eyes flew open to connect with Tristan's gaze, and then she nodded once again to Dagonet, who nodded in turn to Arthur. The two men took a deep breath almost in unison, and pressed the glowing daggers to Toril's skin.

Toril's eyes never wavered from Tristan's for a second, and he watched as she endured the searing pain without a sound, without any sign that it hurt other than her pale eyes widening, her knee flexing slightly, and her grip on his hands growing painfully tight. The sound of flesh sizzling filled the air, along with smell of burning skin and the sickly sweet scent of infection being driven out. When Dagonet and Arthur's daggers left her skin to go back into the fire, Toril's breath left her in one jagged gasp and her eyes slid shut for a moment, her chest heaving as she worked at getting herself under control. Dagonet's hand landed on her arm again as he waited for the knife to heat.

"Toril?" Her eyes opened and swung towards him, shining with unshed tears. The big man swallowed hard.

"Twice more and we will be finished." Toril nodded weakly, smiling almost imperceptively around the leather piece in her mouth. Her gaze swung back up to Tristan as Dagonet and Arthur adjusted their positions between her and the fire, reaching again for the daggers.

Once again Toril made no sound as the hot metal burned into her skin, although her eyes clenched shut and a single tear squeezed out from under her lashes. Tristan's shoulders and back grew tense as he watched Arthur and Dagonet deftly press the knives into her skin only as long as was necessary before moving to another wound. Even with the two of them cauterizing at the same time, only leaving the metal in the wound long enough to purify and seal it before moving to the next lash, it looked like Dagonet's estimate was correct; it would take one more run before all the cuts were sealed. Once the knives were once more in the fire, Toril began to breathe again and her eyes slid open, automatically fixing on Tristan's gaze.

Tristan shook his head slightly at her, smiling faintly, and she smiled back, shakily squeezing his hands. He licked his lips and swallowed, seeing that the blades were almost ready again and bent so that his cheek was pressed to hers. His left hand stayed with hers, although he shifted it slightly to link their fingers, and his right hand slipped under her head, cushioning it from the hard ground. Toril's right hand reached up to gently grasp the back of his neck, her fingers weaving into his shaggy hair. She took a deep breath and held it, nodding to Dagonet.

When the two men were finally finished and Dagonet was gently rubbing salve onto the cauterized wounds, Toril released the last breath she had held with a single low sob, releasing her cramped hold on Tristan's neck at the same time. Tristan raised his head so that he could look into her eyes brimming with tears and he shook his head in amazement. Toril shook her head right back at him, turning her face with a soft whimper so that her smooth cheek rested in the palm of his hand. When Dagonet had finished binding her ribs and stomach with clean bandages, she took a deep breath and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, removing what was left of the leather strap from her mouth at the same time. Arthur chuckled softly to see that she had bitten it into three pieces, and she smile ruefully while tossing it into the fire.

"One does what one must." Her gaze softened as she looked at the Roman commander and the gentle giant who were gathering up the left-over bandages.

"Thank you, Arthur...Dag." Arthur nodded gently to her, moving over to the trees where the other men had one by one escaped during the last several minutes. Dagonet smiled fondly at Toril and reached to caress her cheek before standing silently and making his way back towards the wagon and Lucan. Toril looked up to where Tristan was still kneeling over her and met his solemn gaze, glad that for a moment they were alone at the fire.

"Thank you. I don't know what I would have done if you hadn't been there." Tristan just shrugged off the words and gathered her gently in his arms again, taking her back over to the wagon.

"You need to sleep now," he said gruffly. "You promised me full strength in the morning." Toril smiled faintly, her light gaze enigmatic as she looked at him. For a long moment neither could look away. Finally Tristan stepped back.

"Sleep well, Toril." Without another word, he disappeared into the surrounding woods. Toril sighed quietly, and then snuggled deeper into the pile of furs Tristan had laid her on. Sleep was not long in coming.


	3. Chapter 3

Toril awoke to a loud rumbling and swaying as the wagon made its way over rough ground, heading back to the Wall. At the front of the wagon she could see Fulcinia, the Roman's wife, sitting slightly behind Guinevere who was wrapped in furs and gazing silently at the scenery they were passing. She looked down and saw that Lucan had been placed at her side and was snuggled into her, still asleep. From the position of the sun, she saw that it was still early morning, and that it would be another chilly and snowy day. For several minutes she contented herself to look outside at the people who were walking and riding around the wagon, then with a quiet sigh she gently extracted herself from Lucan and stood unsteadily, her head bowed to keep from bumping into the roof of the wagon. Fulcinia looked up at her with a faint smile, and Toril smiled back.

"Good morning, Lady." The older woman echoed her greeting, and then motioned her to come over to where she was sitting. Toril did so, sinking gracefully to sit beside her.

"We need to change your bandages, to keep them fresh and to keep the infection from returning." Toril nodded immediately and rose to her knees, lifting her tunic away from the bandages wrapped around her stomach. Fulcinia unwrapped the long strip of cloth and looked at the healing wounds with a practiced eye, her gentle fingers brushing Toril's skin as she assessed the damage. For a moment her hand faltered and she rubbed shaky fingers across her eyes, wiping some unbidden tears away. Toril reached down with a strong hand and gently raised Fulcinia's face to meet her gaze. Her eyes and her voice were soft.

"We cannot control, or atone for, the things that others do. You may ache for what your husband has done, and your inability to put an end to it, but you were the one who kept the three of us alive, Lady, and for that we will be eternally grateful. We can live now, because of you." Toril smiled gently, and Fulcinia returned it with a shaky one of her own. After several seconds Fulcinia returned to the task at hand, rubbing more salve into the healing wounds and wrapping them in fresh bandages again.

"You heal quickly, Toril. You will most likely not even scar." Toril smiled again.

"I usually don't." The two women shared another smile, and then Toril moved to the front of the wagon and crouched beside Guinevere, who was now looking to where Arthur rode at the front of the column. Toril's voice was quiet.

"He is handsome." Guinevere laughed low in her throat, but didn't turn.

"He is a mystery." Toril smiled.

"He is a man. How much of a mystery can there be?" Guinevere shook her head.

"He is half Briton and half Roman, yet he wages war on us, his own blood, on the behalf of his Roman fathers." Toril gazed at the younger woman shrewdly, her eyes hooded.

"Ah." For several minutes there was silence between them. Finally, Toril placed her hand on Guinevere's shoulder and squeezed gently.

"Never was there a mystery that couldn't be solved by asking, Guinevere. Try to understand him. It will be worth it in the end." Guinevere's eyes swung towards her, but Toril was already gone, leaping silently out of the wagon to land on her feet in the snow. She breathed deeply, stretching out her shoulders and back that had become cramped with sitting in the wagon for too long. With a small smile, she turned and joined the people walking behind the wagon, her arms swinging freely and her gait relaxed. It was nice to be able to sit in the wagon and rest, but it felt a hundred times better to be out in the open air, moving under her own power.

An hour later, however, she was beginning to think that the wagon would feel wonderful. The after-affects of her wounds and her treatment were still wearing on her, and she was beginning to slow down, eventually finding herself at the rear of the group with a hand at her ribs, muttering under her breath. Not to mention that she could hardly keep her eyes open. Just as she was about to put on a burst of speed and make it back to the wagon, a hawk flew past her with a screech and she heard the sound of hoof beats behind her accompanied by a low whistle. A smile broke across her face. _Tristan_. She raised her arms in the air and waited, bracing herself. Seconds later she felt herself being lifted, and she landed in the saddle in front of the scout, who immediately wrapped an arm gently around her waist, bringing his cape around to shelter the both of them from the cold that Toril was just now noticing. Toril leaned back into him with a sigh, her hands pulling the edges of the cape closed and holding them there. Her voice was soft.

"Good morning." There was no answer from Tristan, and Toril smiled slightly, shaking her head. He was irritated with her.

"I promised you full strength, didn't I?" Tristan's low voice was clipped.

"By morning, yes. But you didn't say anything about the afternoon or evening, when you would be so exhausted from walking all day that your fever would return and all of Dagonet's work would be ruined, and we would be forced to find some other emergency means of keeping you alive." Toril's smile broadened. That was the most she had heard him say at one time since they met.

"I'd like to see you cooped up in that stuffy, closed wagon all day, with wounds that were almost healed, when fresh air and activity, however slight, was within your grasp." Tristan snorted, urging his horse into a smooth canter past the wagons, and then wrapping the reins around the pommel of the saddle, letting his hands rest at Toril's waist.

"That's different." Toril was grinning from ear to ear now.

"How is it different?" Silence.

"How is it different?" When he still didn't answer, Toril chuckled low in her throat, crossed her legs across the horse's neck and flipped around so that she was now facing Tristan, her legs straddling his, her hands on his chest for balance, and their faces barely two inches apart.

"How...is...it...different?" She had him now, and both of them knew it. A slight smile, hardly noticeable, broke across his face and Toril laughed.

"Well?" He shook his head, looking past her to the road ahead of them, his gaze taking in a large white owl that watched them silently from a tree beside the road.

"It is highly unusual for us to be accompanying a wagon. So if ever I am injured, my only mode of transportation is to stay on my horse. Besides...I still would have been out of that wagon long before you." Toril laughed again, her eyes growing wide in mock anger.

"And how do you know how long I have been out? I could have slipped out even before we started moving and have been walking all morning, Sir Scout." Tristan shook his head slyly.

"You've only been walking for an hour." Toril's eyes narrowed.

"You've been spying on me." Tristan nodded, and Toril laughed – a lilting, bell-like sound that filled the air around them and made Tristan's heart skip a beat. Toril looked up at him with her cheeks flushed with mirth and her eyes merry, her face so close to his that he could feel the warmth of her breath on his cheek.

His eyes lowered to her full mouth, so close that he wouldn't even have to barely move...just dip his head and touch his lips to hers...and he would know the answer to the questions that had been plaguing him all morning as he rode and watched her; first in the wagon as she slept, then on the road as she walked with her head held high. _What does she taste like, I wonder? How would it feel? _Tristan was no stranger to what Lancelot and Gawain argued and bragged about constantly – every one of the knights, at one time or another, had taken women to bed with them...it was a way to release excess energy after a particularly difficult mission, a way to get their minds off the hardships and loss in their lives. Tristan knew the women of the fort well enough to choose ones who wouldn't gossip afterwards and wouldn't expect anything more, but never had he ever felt that a woman was more than just a way to release energy...never had he been so preoccupied as to wonder what it would be like to kiss a specific one.

He could feel Toril watching him and lifted his brown eyes to her wintry blue ones. There was no judgment in her eyes, no expectation or anticipation or distress; just clear and open honesty. _She wants me to kiss her_, he realized suddenly. _But she'll let me decide when_. Their gazes locked for a long moment, and then Toril sighed gently, laying her head on Tristan's shoulder. Her voice was almost a whisper.

"I have a confession to make." Tristan rumbled low in his throat, urging her to continue. His hands gathered up the loose edges of his cape and secured them around Toril, who closed her eyes, enjoying the feeling of his strong hands gently rubbing her back.

"I was on my way back to the wagon for a nap." Tristan's mouth twitched and he chuckled slightly as he gathered the reins up in his free hand.

"Do you want me to take you back so you can lie down?" Toril snuggled closer to him, wrapping her arms loosely around his waist and sighing again.

"Only if I'm in the way." Tristan's eyebrow twitched slightly before his face settled back into his neutral expression. Toril smiled as her body relaxed against Tristan's. They weren't turning around.


	4. Chapter 4

Hours later Toril awoke to see that darkness had fallen, and that they were just reaching the outskirts of the newly-set up camp. Tristan's horse was breathing heavily, and Toril realized that they had probably just stopped galloping through the forest on a scouting run to make sure the perimeter was safe. She sighed softly, enjoying the circle of Tristan's arms and the firm pillow his shoulder made for just a moment longer. She laughed softly and felt Tristan's head turn and look down at her, his beard tickling her forehead.

"I'm just thinking...Arthur sent you out to scout, did he not?" Tristan nodded, remembering the looks he had gotten when the other knights saw Toril sharing his saddle, cuddled up to him and sleeping like a baby. Toril chuckled.

"The other knights probably think that you're daft, on a run with a sleeping passenger." Tristan nodded again, a ghost of a smile on his face, his voice low.

"They never know what to think when it comes to me." Toril looked up at him, her smile soft.

"And I'm sure you don't do anything to dissuade that, do you?" Tristan shrugged, guiding the horse into the trees.

"Never really felt like explaining myself." Toril just shook her head, wrapping her arms around Tristan's shoulders as he swung his right leg over the horse's neck and slid to the ground. He stood there for a moment with Toril's legs wrapped around his waist and his hands supporting her under her thighs, seemingly lost in thought. Toril cocked an eyebrow.

"Are you going to let me down?" His eyebrows jumped faintly and his hands immediately slid to her waist, allowing her to stretch her legs out and get her feet underneath her before he let her go and stepped away. One eyebrow flicked at her.

"When you decide to have a nap, you really have a nap." Toril grinned.

"It's hard work, being at full strength. What would you have done if we had been attacked?" Tristan shrugged, his voice nonchalant.

"Woken you up. I grabbed another bow and full quiver as we went past the caravan once, so you would have been armed." Toril looked at him craftily.

"How do you know I would have been able to use it?" Tristan shook his head and grabbed her right hand, lifting her fingers up to the faint light coming from the distant fire.

"Your fingertips are calloused." Toril smiled.

"Very observant of you." Tristan inclined his head very slightly, his gaze still fixed to Toril's slender fingers. His thumb absentmindedly stroked the soft skin on the underside of her wrist, and Toril felt a delicious shudder run down her spine. Her voice was slightly breathless.

"Tristan?" He dropped her hand like it burned him and took another step away, moving to remove his horse's saddle and brush her down, trying to regain his usual sense of calm and control. Toril took a deep, steadying breath and then moved to the dappled grey horse's head, murmuring softly and scratching her underneath the dark bridle. The horse snorted and tossed her head, then pressed her forehead to Toril's chest, her ears flicking. Toril grinned and complied, rubbing the elegant ears gently. Tristan glowered at her from underneath his dark hair.

"Filia doesn't usually like any other hand but mine." Toril smiled, her graceful hands moving over the horse's head and neck, scratching at all the hard-to-reach places.

"I have yet to meet a horse who was immune to my charms." Tristan snorted.

"So you're only in it for the conquests? It doesn't actually mean anything to you?" Toril's hand stilled, her eyes flying to where Tristan brushed Filia's smooth coat with a little more force than was necessary. His voice was low.

"Well that's a relief. I saved all the horses in the world from a horrible, unscratched fate when I pulled you from that cell." Toril's eyes widened and her hand dropped from Filia's nose. The horse nickered and nosed at her arm, but Toril didn't move. After a moment of shocked silence, Tristan's brown eyes rose to meet Toril's and flinched slightly when he saw her hurt expression. Neither of them said anything, but Tristan's eyes flickered into... guilt ...before he continued to brush Filia, albeit more gently.

"Toril..." She shook her head and stepped away, clasping her hands in front of her to keep them from trembling.

"Yes, Tristan. For all the horses in the world, I thank you." She turned and walked towards the campfire, leaving Tristan to gaze remorsefully after her. When she disappeared into the wagon, he turned back to Filia, who stamped a back leg impatiently.

"Damn it."


	5. Chapter 5

It took a while for Tristan to make up his mind on whether he should join the others at the campfire, but when he finally did take a seat at the edge of the fire, he saw that Toril still hadn't appeared from the wagon. There was quite a bit of good-natured ribbing coming from the other knights, especially Bors, but he let it wash over him without acknowledging it. His mind was still fixed solely on the wounded expression in Toril's eyes when he had snapped at her, and the memory of it was doing strange things to his heart.

Tristan had made a career from being the mysterious, silent scout who nobody knew anything about, and that suited him just fine. He would rather be silent than speak; you learned more about a potential enemy when you let them do the talking. And the fewer conversations you had with someone, the less attached to them you got and the less you suffered when they died. It was one of the standards Tristan lived his life by.

But he himself knew how fallible that standard was...he had grown attached to the knights he ate, drank, slept and fought with, just by being around them for the last fifteen years. Hell, he had been attached to them since they first set foot in the dreary territory that was to be their post, ripped from all corners of the vast land they once called home. Some of them still harboured hopes of returning to Sarmatia after their tour of duty for Rome was at an end, but not Tristan. He stopped looking ahead after the first of their comrades died in battle. For Tristan, there was only the _twang_ of his bowstring, the feeling of his sword in his hand, the deadly dance of death that he had perfected over the years. For Tristan, there was only the here and now.

And here and now was where Toril was...

She puzzled him, with her piercing blue gaze, mysterious looks, and the way he felt so irresistibly drawn to her, right from the first moment he had crouched to see her pale blue eyes looking back at him from the horrors of a Roman torture chamber. Riding through the forest that day with Toril in his arms, it wasn't hard for Tristan to imagine, or even long for, riding forever like that, not ever having to stop. She was quickly becoming a touchstone for him, something to think about on his lonely runs into the forest as he patrolled endlessly; making sure the other knights and their charges would be safe.

Tristan shook his head and drew his curved sword from its sheath to sharpen it. His life was too perilous to attach himself to someone else emotionally; there was always the threat of death at anytime. Always.

And yet...this was the last mission they were to undertake for Rome. When they returned to the fort, their discharge papers would be waiting for them and they would be free. Tristan didn't trust the Roman bishop for a second, he was too smart for that, but like the others, especially Dagonet, he trusted Arthur. And Arthur promised them their freedom upon their return.

That was good enough for Tristan. Now all he had to do was stay alive for one more day, for only a few more hours' traveling with the Saxons breathing down their necks.

They could hold them off for a few more hours.

And then...when he was a free man, then what? He had never looked ahead far enough to think about what he would do with his freedom. Return to Sarmatia? His family was all dead and gone, slaughtered by Romans and rebels and whatever other manner of vile creatures thirsted for human blood. Stay at the Wall? With the Romans gone, the Woads would descend upon the Wall with a vengeance. Not to mention that the Saxons would easily overcome any who resisted.

No, Tristan didn't know what he would do. Probably follow the rest of the knights wherever they went...after fifteen years of serving together, their presence had become natural to him. He would miss them if they were gone, even if their constant arguing and talking made it difficult for him to hear the sounds of the forest around them, sounds that told him where the enemy was.

And now there was Toril. Her pale blue eyes, her low voice, her lilting laugh, the way her body fit against his...all of these things and more made him think that he would like to have her around for the rest of his life, to have her to talk to, to have her to listen, to have her to ride with, to have her to come home to...just to have her. Now with the end so close in sight, Tristan could almost see how the next few days could pan out. He could almost see them returning to the Wall safely, receiving their discharge papers, and then leaving for Sarmatia. He could almost see Toril riding beside him, heading east with him, as his wife.

But for fifteen years Tristan hadn't looked ahead, and now when he tried to, he found that he was so out of practice that he couldn't see further ahead than putting his sword back in its sheath after sharpening it. And even that seemed too far.

The suddenness of silence drew his attention back to the fire and the other knights, and his gaze automatically went in the same direction that theirs did, his grip on his sword tightening. But it wasn't an enemy that they saw, no Saxon or Woad or even a wild animal. It was simply Toril. But such a Toril that they had yet to see...she had disappeared into the wagon wearing Tristan's clothes and still covered in dirt and blood from her time in the dungeon, but now...now she was clean, her skin fresh and glowing and her hair shining in the light, pulled into a thick braid down her back. She was wearing a dark green gown of Fulcinia's, very simple in design but very elegant at the same time; her figure was fuller than the Roman woman's, so she filled out the dress very nicely. Her gaze met each of the knights' in turn, with a beautiful smile for each of them, and she sat gracefully between Gawain and Galahad, accepting a hunk of bread from Jols. Only Tristan noticed the way her eyes darkened when she looked at him, the split second of sorrow that covered her face before it relaxed again. His heart clenched inside him and his hand tightened again on his sword. Maybe he couldn't look ahead and plan for the future, but he could apologize to her and make things right in the now.

Tristan stood abruptly, his sword ringing as it slid back into its scabbard. His voice was low, rough.

"Toril, may I speak with you?" Her surprised eyes met his, but she tossed the bread back to Jols and rose without question to walk with Tristan, his hand feather-light on her back as he guided her several steps into the forest. When they were out of hearing range of the knights around the fire, Tristan dropped his hand and Toril turned to meet his eyes, waiting.

For a long moment there was only the sound of the wind in the trees as Tristan tried to gather his thoughts and find something to say, a long moment where his heart raced and Toril waited patiently, just looking at him with her solemn eyes that held some sort of an expression that Tristan didn't recognize. _Vulnerable_, he realized finally, and his heart seemed to steady inside of him. He would not destroy this further, just because he wasn't used to being in this situation. His jaw clenched once, and his gaze dropped away from her pale eyes, his voice so quiet that even he could barely hear it.

"I did not mean what I said earlier, Toril. It wasn't my intention to hurt you, ever. I apologize." His eyes lifted once again to her face in time to see a single tear slip down her cheek, and his hand reached to brush it away before he had time to think. His fingertips stilled on her smooth skin and he watched her eyes closely, for something, anything, that would tell him he was forgiven, surprising himself with the intensity with which he desired it. After what seemed like forever to Tristan, Toril reached up to cup his face in her hands, stood on her toes and placed a gentle kiss to his forehead. Her voice was sweeter than he could ever have imagined.

"I forgive you, Tristan." The barest smile crossed his face and he leaned down to press his forehead to hers, his hands slipping around her waist to hold her close. She grinned playfully.

"But don't do it again." Tristan shook his head emphatically.

"I never intend to, Lady. I fear your bow." Toril laughed out loud, filling the air around them with joy.

"If you fear my bow, you must be terrified of my sword. Or did you not notice that my palms are calloused as well?" Tristan's lids drooped over his dark eyes. He had been so enthralled by the length and slimness of her fingers that he hadn't looked at the rest of her hand.

"No, I didn't notice. But don't tell anyone else. They'll think I'm losing my touch."

Toril chuckled again. "Never fear, Sir Knight. Your secret is safe with me."

Tristan's eyes narrowed again, almost playfully. "And can I trust you?"

Toril shrugged, the joy in her eyes being replaced by something more solemn.

"I cannot answer that for you, Tristan. Do you think you can trust me?" Tristan's only answer was to tip the corner of his mouth up into a wry smile, grasp Toril's hand, and lead her back towards the warmth of the fire.

They arrived in time to hear Galahad grumbling that they had not yet glimpsed the Saxon army behind them, only heard the ominous sound of their war drums as they left Marius Honorius' land. The other knights were giving him a hard time about it, albeit good-naturedly. Bors' voice was rough, as always.

"If you want to put all this behind you, you seem awfully eager to find someone to fight, youngest." Galahad grew indignant.

"I want to know the manner of my enemy before I have to fight him, Bors; that way I'm not surprised." Gawain pushed Galahad aside to make room for Toril to sit down, and was in turn pushed aside by Tristan who sat silently and pulled Toril into his lap. Her bell-like laugh captured everyone's attention, and her voice was merry.

"That's good, Galahad...but these Saxons? They can smell fear just by looking at you..." she leaned across Gawain to capture Galahad's chin in her strong grasp. "...So keep quiet." The circle around the fire was quiet for a second before erupting into laughter at the conflicting statement. Galahad looked confused for a moment before his face relaxed and he chuckled as well. Toril sat back against Tristan, her mouth turned up at the corners, and once again accepted the hunk of bread that Jols tossed to her, tearing it in half and handing one piece to Tristan. Bors' attention turned to the scout.

"Have you seen them yet, Tristan?"

The dark haired man shook his head. "Only signs. No actual soldiers." Bors shrugged, trying not to look too hopeful.

"Eh, maybe tomorrow." Lancelot looked at Toril from under his dark eyelashes.

"Now that you're actually awake, Toril, we can let you know what manner of man Tristan is." Toril rolled her eyes at him and smiled with the other knights, then schooled her face into a study of concentration.

"By all means, Lancelot. What manner of man is Tristan?"

Bors snorted. "He's bloodthirsty, that one. He kills for the sake of killing, for the pure joy of it."

Gawain nodded. "His weapons are his most prized possessions...no living creature gets the same attention as his sword and bow."

Dagonet's quiet voice spoke from the other side of the fire. "And he only ever talks to his hawk."

Tristan shot Dagonet a look, his voice low. "Which is more than we can say of you, sometimes."

Gawain and Bors made a show of falling over in shock, and Tristan just shook his head in disgust, his arm tightening around Toril's waist as she spoke through her laughter.

"Is this all you can tell me? I expected some dire news, Lancelot; some tall tale of how he was more monster than man, or something of that sort."

Galahad's eyebrow rose. "Obtaining pleasure from taking life is not monstrous to you?" Toril shook her head.

"There is nothing as artful, as beautiful, as...poetic...as the ability to take another human's life. What can compare to that?" Galahad looked at her with shock written all over his young face.

"You're as disturbing as he is." He stood abruptly and left the circle of the fire. The other knights whistled and catcalled after him, but he didn't turn. Bors sighed heavily and looked at Toril, shaking his head.

"Kindred spirits, you are." Toril just grinned cheekily. Lancelot frowned.

"Kindred spirits or no, I think it rather strange that you would ride off with someone you hardly knew. I would hate to find someday that you were...attacked...because you were too trusting. Falling asleep and letting your guard down is not very smart, Lady." Toril's mouth widened into a predatory smile and her gaze turned sensuous.

"Mmm, yes, Lancelot. I thank you for your concern. But how do you know when I fell asleep and for what reason? Maybe I was just too exhausted from...riding through the woods."

There was silence for a moment before the circle erupted into calls and whistles again as the knights caught her implied meaning, and Gawain threw an arm around Toril's waist to draw her towards him.

"I think tomorrow you should come riding with me, Toril." Tristan glared at the younger man and pulled Toril squarely back onto his knee again, but Toril looked at Tristan and then at Gawain with an agreeing expression on her face. Her voice was abnormally bright.

"I think that's a good idea, actually. I get so exhausted riding with Tristan. I'd at least be able to stay awake with Gawain." Gawain's mouth hung open in shock, and Toril turned to Lancelot.

"Or I could ride with Lancelot and be wide awake for the next three days!" Her expression turned perplexed.

"Or I could fall asleep from boredom..." Yells and jeers echoed around the circle once again, and Tristan just shook his head as Toril laughed out loud at the look on Gawain and Lancelot's faces. Lancelot stood up in mock anger and left the circle grumbling under his breath, and Toril laughed again. She was about to say something else when they heard Lucan cry out from his bed underneath the wagon. Dagonet was instantly at his side, soothing him, and Toril's gaze grew pensive.

"He dreams..." She shook her head in sorrow, shooting a death glare towards the other fire where Marius Honorius was sitting with his guards. Tristan shook his head and pulled her closer towards him, turning her slightly so that she rested with her head on his shoulder. Toril looked into his face with a gentle smile, and then looked up to where Dagonet suddenly appeared beside them.

"He asks for the singer. He does not know if it was you or Guinevere who soothed him in the night." Toril nodded immediately and stood.

"It was I. His nightmares woke him, so I did the only thing I could to calm him down." She shot another glare towards the Roman.

"His whole life was reduced to a nightmare." Dagonet stood aside so that she could walk towards the small boy, and then took his place beside the fire again. There was no more talking among the knights now, as their ears all strained to hear Toril's low voice singing to Lucan. They couldn't make out the words, but they could hear the melody as she sang - not perfect, but it was haunting and soothing at the same time, reminding them both of home and of loss. In a way, it reminded them of the song Vanora sang before they left for this mission, but it was somehow wilder. It caused them to think of Sarmatia and of the fort, of friends and family that they had left behind and also found in the last fifteen years. They thought of all the comrades they had lost, and of the freedom that awaited them when they returned to the Wall.

They were still lost in thought when Toril returned to the fire, standing beside Tristan with her hand resting on his shoulder, her back straight. Her voice was low when she spoke to Dagonet.

"He asks for you now, Dagonet." The gentle giant immediately rose, and they watched as he crouched beside Lucan, covering him with his armour, tucking his sword where it would be easily reached, and settling himself down beside the small boy. Toril shook her head, her voice soft.

"It amazes me that a warrior such as Dagonet could behave so tenderly towards one so small and still be so fierce. Galahad seeks to leave one life behind in search of another, but Dagonet can reconcile the two. He can be warrior and healer, attacker and protector, all at the same time. Not many people can achieve that." She smiled softly, looking down at Tristan, her gaze tender.

"It is late, and my bed calls to me. Rest well, all of you." The knights bade her good night in low murmurs, and then watched as she disappeared into the wagon above Dagonet and Lucan. Bors turned to Tristan, his voice uncommonly quiet.

"She's a good catch, that one. If I didn't have all my bastards, I'd be after her." Tristan snorted softly.

"If, Bors."

Later than night, Tristan propped himself up against a big oak tree, letting his mind wander over to the woman sleeping in the wagon on the other side of the camp. He shook his head to try and clear his thoughts, but knew that he would have no peace that night. He had only known Toril for a day and a half, but she had already wormed her way under his skin and into his heart like no other woman ever had. He sighed and rubbed his hand over his face, then rose silently and began to make his way towards the wagon. If he wasn't going to find sleep that night, at least he could check and make sure that Toril was resting peacefully.

When he reached the wagon, his keen ears instantly picked up the sound of two people breathing rhythmically. He frowned. _Toril, the Roman's wife, and Guinevere...there should be three. _His heart already sinking in his chest, he poked his head into the wagon far enough to see that Guinevere and Fulcinia were the only ones there. Toril was gone.


	6. Chapter 6

Before it was even light the next morning, Tristan left the camp to scout ahead. He hadn't slept since he realized Toril was gone, and the ability to sit still had never been one of his strong qualities, so he saddled Filia, whistled to Theron, and left the camp as silently as a ghost.

The night before he had followed the footprints made by Toril as she strode away from the camp, but the trail had stopped suddenly without another clue. He rode past it again that morning, but came to the same conclusion. She didn't want to be followed. So he continued on his way, only half-conscious of the fact that with every beat of his heart he was hoping he would see her again.

The trail took him further into the mountains, to a frozen lake that lay in a sheltered valley. Tristan stood silently at the edge of the lake for a long moment, his mind racing, trying to think of another way through the treacherous mountain pass that didn't have the possibility of ending in a watery grave. There was nothing. So he walked across the lake and back again, testing to see how thick the ice was. It held his and Filia's weight without a sound, but there was no telling how it would respond to two score people and several wagons loaded with supplies. He clenched his jaw slightly and squinted towards the east where the sun was just beginning to rise. They didn't have a choice.

His path back to the camp took a slight detour, higher into the mountain pass. When Filia could no longer climb, Tristan continued on foot, his mind's eye focusing on a ledge he had seen the day before. It would be a good vantage point to see where the Saxon army was.

Tristan reached the ledge within a few minutes, its location exactly where he had remembered it to be. The only exception to his memory was that it wasn't just a ledge, but a large plateau hidden into the side of the mountain. A thick forest of trees clustered there, and the wide space was large enough that they could have camped there the night before, wagons and all. Tristan scanned the area with his piercing gaze, but saw no one, so he crouched down and stole to the edge of the cliff, lying on his belly in the snow to peer over the side.

To his right was their camp, exposed only by the thin stream of smoke issuing from a single failing fire, just visible in the new light. Far to his left was the Saxon camp, the smoke from its fires more brazen, more indifferent to searching eyes. With long practice Tristan judged the distance between the camps and found it desperately wanting. They had to be on their way immediately, otherwise the Saxons would overtake them before they had a chance to cross the lake.

Suddenly the hair on the back of Tristan's neck stood up and his skin pricked. He was being watched. His hand slipped to his breastplate and grasped one of his throwing daggers as he looked over his shoulder and scanned the trees. His sharp brown eyes saw nothing out of place except a great white owl, which held his gaze for several seconds before spreading its large wings and swooping off without a sound. _Either this forest is being overrun by white owls, or there's only one and it has a purpose._ Still the feeling of being watched persisted, and Tristan crawled away from the ledge and stood as soon as he knew he wouldn't be seen from either camp below. His eyes still searching the trees, he drew his long curved sword and held it ready.

Before he could probe deeper into the forest, however, the sound of voices caught his ear. Several people, all male, all speaking a language he didn't recognize, were following the trail on the other side of the trees up towards the plateau. The barest ghost of a smile crossed Tristan's lips, and he adjusted his hold on his sword. It was about time he found some Saxons to kill.

It only took a second before they came into view, and when they saw the lone man standing on the ledge they grew silent. For several seconds they stared at him, at the sword in his hand, and at his ready stance. Tristan took those several seconds to size them up in return. There were nine of them altogether, all with the look of battle hardened soldiers. Tristan smiled grimly. A harsh command flew from the throat of one of the men in the back, and the four closest to him advanced slowly, their swords ready.

When they were close enough, Tristan whirled, his curved blade just a flash of light as it cleaved through two Saxons in rapid succession, then rose to sever the head of a third before buying itself to the hilt in the fourth. He drew it out slowly, watching the other five Saxons as they stared at him warily, not really knowing how to proceed, but knowing that they had to attack.

Before anyone could make a move, however, Tristan heard a _thunk_ and the Saxon closest to him made a strangled sound and collapsed at his feet, a crossbow bolt buried below his left shoulder. Almost before he could blink, the other four men dropped to the ground in a similar fashion, all with arrows protruding from their bodies. Tristan stared warily into the woods, not knowing how many and what manner of people were in there, and not knowing if he would be the next casualty. Suddenly a form appeared between the trees, and his eyes widened, his heart skipping a beat. It was Toril.

But not the Toril that he had carried to the wagon two nights before after burning daggers had been pressed into her sensitive flesh, and not even the Toril of the previous night, the one who gingerly held herself erect even as she teased his fellow knights. This woman stood proudly, painlessly, with her shoulders squared and her beautiful, regal head held high, every inch a queen. The dark tattoos on her high cheekbones contrasted sharply with her creamy skin, clean from all the grime and gore she had collected in the dungeon, and glowing with health. Her cheeks were slightly pink, her lips were red, and her pale blue eyes shone as she looked at him. Her silky blonde hair framed her face and cascaded down her straight back almost to her hips, and on her forehead was a pendant of beaten gold, supported by a thin circlet that was woven into her hair. Instead of rags or Tristan's spare clothes or a borrowed Roman gown she was wearing a simple white dress which outlined her muscular body perfectly, clinging to her smooth curves like a second skin, loosely tied at her collarbones, and bound at her slim hips with a tan leather belt. A wide pattern of pale greens and blues was embroidered into the bottom of the skirt. Her shoulders were covered by a rich white fur that fell to her feet, which were shod in small leather shoes. Several fingers displayed sparkling gems set in wide rings, and one hand had a strong grip on a thick-looking crossbow. Without breaking her gaze from Tristan, Toril tossed the crossbow towards him and it landed in the snow right beside his feet. Tristan glanced at it, his jaw working and his hands solidifying their grip on the hilt of his sword. For a moment he felt sure that his lack of sleep was affecting his gaze; that Toril wasn't really there in front of him, like one of the other knight's goddesses in all her glory. He felt sure that it was just a trick of his imagination, that it was an illusion, that it was a front for some attack. Toril's red lips curled into a slight smile as if she knew what he was thinking.

"Peace, Tristan of Sarmatia." His grip faltered as he heard her say his name for the first time since they had met, and then he frowned, his voice harsh.

"Who are you?" Toril's gaze softened slightly and Tristan again got the distinct impression that she knew what he was thinking. It was unsettling, but at the same time, somewhat soothing. His grip relaxed on his sword and he straightened, letting the tip of the blade rest gently on the ground. Toril's gaze grew solemn again.

"I am high priestess of the hoard that are mere steps behind you." Tristan's curved sword was instantly in his hand and his eyes narrowed, cursing himself as he wondered why he hadn't seen it yet.

"You are Saxon." She nodded.

"I am of their blood, yes. Once of their people. But no longer so, now. Now I only seek deliverance from the harsh rule of their king." Tristan's non-expression flickered slightly as he suppressed a frown.

"Their warlord?" Toril nodded gravely.

"Cerdic, yes." This time Tristan didn't try to hide his glare.

"You put up a appealing front, Saxon, making yourself known long enough to spin a web, then retreating and waiting for your enemies to fall into your trap. How many men are waiting to swarm the camp and destroy all in their path? How many do you have under your pretty little thumb, waiting to obey your every command?" Toril's eyes grew sad and Tristan cursed under his breath as his heart clenched within him. He would not be pulled in again.

"I am not going to deny how it looks, Tristan. You asked who I was, and I gave you the title I have been identified by. But it has no meaning for me now. I have seen too much, heard too many screams at the hands of my kin and their lord, and witnessed the destruction of too many innocent people to ever take pleasure in what used to be my life. I am a high priestess, yes, but only because I have a Gift that no other bears at this time. And it is because of this that I hold a position of power over the people. They follow me and trust me because they fear me. And because they fear Cerdic."

Despite his anger at her apparent treachery and almost against his will, Tristan found his heart growing soft towards Toril again. He sheathed his sword after a long moment, crouching on the ground in a relaxed pose. His voice was low.

"If you are so important to your people, why were you in a Roman torture chamber?" Toril's eyebrow flickered slightly.

"To make myself known." Tristan frowned, and Toril's mouth softened and turned up at the corners.

"There is not enough time to explain it all to you this morning, as you are needed back at camp, but suffice it to say for now that in you and your fellow knights I foresee my deliverance from the hands of my oppressors." Tristan held his ground.

"Foresee?" Toril sighed and smiled at him, the first real smile he had seen that morning. It took his breath away.

"Yes, foresee. I have the gift of divine sight, Tristan. Some people call me a Prophetess, some call me a Seer. What it basically boils down to is that I constantly see two things happening at once. Almost as if my eyes see different things at the same time. One sees what is happening now, like everyone else does, while the other sees what is to happen in the future. Sometimes the visions are for months or even years away, while sometimes I see it only a split second before it actually happens. If I concentrate I can filter out what is happening in the present and focus solely on the future, even so far as hearing what is being said. It is because of this that I have been raised to such a high rank over my people." Tristan nodded shortly.

"Useful for a man bent on conquest." She nodded immediately.

"I can tell Cerdic which battles to choose and how to fight them, and which he should bow away from. I can tell him which countries are ripe for the picking and which would put up the most resistance. I can even tell him which of his soldiers are planning an attack on his life, and if his second-in-command, his son Cynric, is fit to lead when he dies." Tristan's gaze grew hooded.

"And you no longer want this life? You must be valuable above all else." Toril's eyes slid shut for a moment, and when she opened them they were filled with pain.

"Cerdic and Cynric see me as a tool, a means to ensure their conquest. Several years ago, we were planning an assault on a country north of here...closer to our home. And everything I saw..." Her voice died. Tristan watched as her gaze grew distant, remembering. He rose without a sound and approached her, no longer feeling as if she would betray him, and needing to be near her, for her sake as much as for his. He drew close enough that he could smell the fresh scent of her hair and see tiny droplets of water pool on her skin where snow had dripped off the trees; close enough that he could feel the slight heat rising from her body into the cool morning air. Toril's eyes opened slowly and her voice dropped to a whisper.

"I was younger then, and too naive to know how bloodthirsty and violent Cerdic was. When he asked me to advise him how to conduct his attack, all I could see were thousands of innocent lives being ravaged for no reason other than to satisfy a power-hungry and evil man. These visions continued for days until I could no longer eat or sleep. For a month this continued, into the campaign he conducted, guided only by my incoherent ramblings as I was slowly driven mad by the sheer waste of human life I saw both in my mind and in front of me. Finally he grew angry with me, and caused me to be beaten until I could no longer speak for pain.

"As soon as the campaign was ended, the visions stopped and I was able to regain my sanity and health. But from that moment on, I have wanted only one thing: to be free from his tyranny and away from those who take lives only to further themselves. Including his son, the man I am to marry as soon as this war is finished." Toril's eyes slid closed again and she bowed her head, resting it against Tristan's chest.

"And then in my visions I saw you. I saw you and Arthur and Lancelot and the others, and I knew that you were the ones who could bring Cerdic to his end and free me. And so I spoke of this land to him, and filled his mind with tales of it until he was so obsessed that he could do nothing but come. I allowed myself to be captured by Marius Honorius' guards and imprisoned for several days so that I would be made known to you without risking a battle. And now my intentions are to shadow you, neither staying with you nor rejoining my lord, but to work from the side against his schemes. Those men we killed were sent by Cerdic to find me, to bring me back so that I may approve his work. I know what his plans are. And I know how to be a thorn in his side until the day comes when I can face him in battle and thus decide my destiny."

Toril lifted her head from where it rested against Tristan and looked him in the eyes, her pale blue gaze soft as she read his expression.

"On the very slight chance that I may not be able to prevent myself from being seen with you, I will not endanger the group with my presence any longer. But until that final battle you will always be able to find me, Tristan. If ever you need me." Tristan felt captivated by Toril's intense gaze and just stared back into her deep blue eyes, matching her look with one of equal strength. Almost of their own accord, his hands reached to cup her face, the pads of his thumbs running over the tattoos on her cheekbones. Toril tipped her face towards him and leaned into him slightly, her small hands coming to rest on his arms, her eyes closing as he softly stroked her smooth skin with his battle-roughened hands. A small sigh escaped her lips and Tristan bent his head to gently capture her mouth with his, kissing her slowly but thoroughly; feeling her body melt into his, moving his hands from her face to her slim back and waist underneath her fur cape, tasting mint and ice on her soft, supple, warm lips. Toril's eyes fluttered when she felt his lips on hers, every nerve in her body tingling at the touch of his hands, his lips, his tongue.

But then...

When Tristan finally raised his head to regain his breath, he saw that Toril was standing stock-still, her eyes racing underneath their fragile lids, her hold on his shoulders loose. He frowned slightly and stepped away.

All of a sudden Toril's eyes flew open, and in a smooth, fast motion that Tristan almost couldn't discern, she whipped a small dagger out of its sheath in her belt and threw it full force into the trees to her left. There was the thick sound of the blade meeting flesh, and another Saxon soldier toppled into view with Toril's knife sticking at an angle from his forehead. Toril immediately turned to Tristan with an apologetic look on her face.

"We missed one." He flicked an eyebrow at her, but didn't respond. She shook her head.

"Sometimes I need to act immediately, or all would be lost. He would have killed you and dragged me directly to Cerdic. It --" Her voice dropped again and her eyes slid shut for another moment before springing open. Her voice was low.

"Dagonet is attacked. Marius has a knife to Lucan's throat. Dagonet is powerless to help...but an arrow is shot from Guinevere's bow and kills Marius. His guards throw down their swords before Arthur...and then you ride into the camp." She shook her head and grabbed him by the arm, propelling him forcefully through the fallen Saxons, across the plateau, down the trail he had climbed earlier, grabbing the crossbow on their way by.

"It has not happened yet, but will soon. You are needed at the camp, Tristan, to guide your people to safety. Take them across the lake. The horde you saw this morning is only two hundred of Cerdic's infantry, led by Cynric. The main army travels south towards the wall. Do not hinder Dagonet, he is your salvation; but pay special attention to Cynric's archers." Tristan's head spun slightly as he sought to take all the information in at once.

"Where will you be?" Toril grinned.

"I will be on the cliffs above the lake. There are nine bows on your side this day, Tristan." Tristan was about to ask her another question when they leapt the last few feet to level ground and landed beside Filia, who snorted softly at their sudden appearance but didn't move. Tristan turned towards the woman at his side.

"Toril..." What he was about to say was cut off by the appearance of a great white owl who swooped in to settle on Toril's shoulder. Tristan immediately recognized it as the one he had seen several times during their journey, and he watched silently as it bent its soft head to place something from its beak into Toril's mouth. It then sat back, satisfied, and nibbled affectionately at her ear, hooting softly. Toril grimaced slightly, but managed to swallow whatever it was the owl had given her, buried her hand in its thick feathers and stroked gently, while whispering to it in a low, guttural language that Tristan didn't understand, but recognized as the same one the Saxon men were using. Toril soon turned back to him with a smile.

"This is Karina, my dear little sister. She is shrewder than many humans I know...when I have not been well, she believes it is her duty to supply me with food. Her tastes seem to have improved slightly...raw hare is not the worst thing I have been given, by far." Tristan shook his head slightly and smiled at the grand owl perched on Toril's slim shoulder.

"Theron does the same for me, although he doesn't feel the need to feed me himself." Toril shook her head in mock dismay, then pursed her lips and uttered a low whistle. Tristan turned at the sound of hooves and saw a massive white war horse moving gracefully through the woods behind them, wearing a bridle but no saddle, with a pair of large bags slung across his powerful shoulders. He walked straight up to Toril and Karina, pushing at Toril with his soft nose. She laughed quietly and scratched behind his ear, smiling as he turned to give Tristan and Filia a cursory snort.

"And this is Medwin, my protector and friend. He does not feel the need to feed me, but he will not stop carrying me away from danger until he himself drops from weariness." Karina spread her wings and lifted from Toril's shoulder, only to settle on the thick strap joining the two bags. In one smooth motion Toril grasped Medwin's mane and the reins in one hand and swung onto the huge horse's back, ignoring Karina's disgruntled squawk at being disrupted. The light from the rising sun caught her burnished pendant, making it look as though a star had come to rest on her forehead as she looked down at Tristan, her eyes growing soft again. Tristan didn't hold her gaze, however, and focused instead on the intricate leather work of the bag nearest him, his heart and mind in turmoil about how Toril had reacted back up on the plateau after he kissed her. But before he could think of anything to say, Toril's small hands had gently cupped his face and tipped it towards her. Leaning down in the saddle, she pressed a gentle but insistent kiss to his lips, sighing softly as she did so. After a moment she reluctantly pulled away and straightened, her blue eyes locked with Tristan's brown ones. Her voice was quiet.

"As much as I would rather stay here...we are both needed elsewhere. You will always be able to find me, Tristan...if ever you need or want to." Then without a backwards look she urged Medwin into a canter and was soon out of sight around the corner.

Tristan stood for several seconds to collect his thoughts, and then shook his head with a faint smile, swung into Filia's saddle and headed back towards the camp at a lope, the Saxon crossbow slung across his shoulder.

_Oh, I definitely want to_.


	7. Chapter 7

Two hours later, Tristan once again stood at the edge of the frozen pond, staring across to safety on the other side. The other knights grew silent as they realized what they had to do and what it could mean, and Arthur turned to Tristan, the desperation in his voice only apparent to those who had known him for fifteen years.

"Is there any other way?" Tristan's gaze hardened, though not at Arthur.

"No." With a pointed glance at his leader, he took Filia's reins in his hand and began to walk. Almost immediately, though still one-by-one, the other knights followed after him. Then, more hesitantly, came the Romans and the peasants, on foot and spread out as far as possible.

Deathly silence for a moment or two as they crept across the ice, then a deep cracking sound that sent Tristan's heart plummeting to his feet. And in the air, just as deadly but somehow less ominous now, came the sound of the Saxon drums.

The company paused, a feeling of panic filling the air from the peasants. Arthur wheeled his horse around to face his men. His voice was low, resigned.

"Knights?" Half a heartbeat, then heads lifted and shoulders squared.

"My ass is sore from riding all day," Bors said with a grin.

Tristan's eyes flashed. "Never liked looking over my shoulder anyways."

"Time to put an end to this racket." This, from Gawain, and then, more surprisingly, from Galahad -- "And finally get a look at the bastards." Dagonet's face was almost serene as he walked past Arthur.

"Here. Now." Arthur turned and nodded to Jols, who immediately turned into a whirlwind of activity, commanding some boys to lead the knight's horses across the lake, commissioning others to gather bows and arrows. As Tristan pulled his own bow from his saddle, he overheard Arthur quietly giving orders to Ganis, the young Roman man who had pledged to serve him back at Marius Honorius'. Ganis was indignant that Arthur wasn't letting him stay and fight.

"But you're seven against two hundred!"

"Eight." Guinevere's calm voice came from behind Arthur as she walked to where the other knights were preparing, the bow she had used against Marius Honorius in her hands. "You could use another bow."

_Nine_, Tristan thought suddenly. _Toril said she would be here as well._ He turned to scan the cliff edge, searching for a glimpse of her, but turned back even before he had completed the action. If she was to fight with them in secret against her own people, she wouldn't be anywhere that the Saxons could see her. The corner of his mouth quirked up into a slight smile. _However..._ Toril did strike him as a person who would think things through and then do the exact polar opposite of what was expected.

A slight movement caught his eye, and he looked towards the cliff without turning his head. Not Toril, but just as good; Karina gazed back at him from where she was perched on a rock, then took flight, soaring high above them and disappearing over the top of the cliff. Tristan nodded and turned back to his weapons, plucking the bow-string to check its tautness and positioning the full quiver so he could easily reach the arrows. Soon the rest of the knights were lined up beside him, facing the edge of the lake they had just come from, each concentrating on the drumbeat pulsing through the air as Ganis led the peasants and the Roman soldiers towards safety.

They didn't have long to wait. Almost as soon as the last of the caravan disappeared out of sight, the first of the Saxon infantry marched around the bend and onto the ice. They were a crude-looking lot, hardened men wearing leather and fur with their long beards and hair braided to keep it away from their faces. Their leader was tall and broad, with a shaven head and a plaited beard, dressed more elaborately in a rich black and white fur that cascaded from his shoulders to his waist, so as not to inhibit his movements. Tristan immediately recognized the same proud features that he saw in Toril, but without the kindness and gentleness that was so apparent in the Saxon priestess. _Cynric_, he remembered Toril saying. Her betrothed.

"There are a large number of lonely men out there." He heard Lancelot say quietly from somewhere behind him, and Guinevere replied, her voice just as low.

"Don't worry. I won't let them rape you." A low chuckle rippled down the line, and Tristan's lips curled slightly at the corners. _Sounds like something Toril would say_. He shook his head to clear it. She must really be in his heart if he was thinking of her right before battle.

When the infantry was lined up in ranks across the lake from them, the Saxon prince motioned to one of his men. "Archer!" His voice was imperious and as cruel-sounding as his face was cruel-looking. A man with a long bow stepped forward and notched an arrow, pulling back and releasing it with a hollow _shunt_. The arrow flew through the air and landed, skidding to a stop only halfway between the two parties. Arthur immediately turned to his knights.

"I believe they're waiting for an answer. Bors, Tristan." Guinevere turned to him, her brows lowered.

"They're far out of range!" Arthur merely inclined his head to where Bors and Tristan were notching multiple arrows on their Sarmatian bows. They pulled back and released, watching as the arrows flew through the air and imbedded themselves into Saxon soldiers, giving each other a single, satisfied look. Guinevere pursed her lips, but notched an arrow to her bow as well. The small company took aim and held fast as the Saxons began to march towards them, carefully choosing their footing on the ice. Arthur's eyes narrowed slightly.

"Aim for the wings and the ranks; make them cluster." Almost as one they fired, once again watching as the arrows sailed through the air and found their targets. Not one of them missed. Tristan noticed, however, that an extra Saxon had fallen and smiled slightly even as he took careful aim again, his heart thrilling at the thought of fighting with Toril.

For several tense minutes they fired their bows repeatedly, casting the Saxon infantry into a panic as they sought to protect themselves from the arrows, even as the ice beneath them groaned and crackled dangerously. Finally, Arthur dropped his bow in despair and grabbed Excalibur.

"It's not going to break. Prepare for combat." The knights gathered their primary weapons to them, falling unconsciously into a familiar ready stance as they watched the Saxon men grow closer and closer. Their leader, Cynric, was focused solely on the eight warriors, and was not noticing that his men were still falling to arrows even though none of Arthur's soldiers were holding a bow. Tristan smiled grimly and tightened his grip on his curved sword, feeling his blood pulse in his hands, every beat echoing her name as he stared her cruel fiancé in the face. _Toril. Toril. Toril._

There was a sudden movement to his left as Dagonet dropped his sword and grabbed his axe; then the giant was running, charging towards the enemy, a wordless battle cry on his lips and his weapon raised over his head. Their eyes went wide and a cry was torn from Bors' lips.

"No! Dag!" Arthur's bow was immediately in his hands again.

"Cover him!" Wave after wave of arrows poured into the Saxon ranks as Dagonet reached a place on the lake far enough away from his comrades and began to hack at it with his axe, each chop burrowing deeper and deeper into ice. The Saxon prince motioned to his archers, who ran forward and took aim at the big man, frantically trying to keep him from breaking through.

_Do not hinder Dagonet, he is your salvation; but pay special attention to Cynric's archers_...Toril's words from earlier that morning ran through Tristan's mind and he immediately took aim at the Saxon archers, desperate to keep their arrows from hitting his brother-in-arms. Despite their best efforts, three Saxon bolts found their marks and Dagonet fell, only to rise again unsteadily and continue his work. Then Arthur was running as well, racing towards his knight as Dag raised his axe one last time and buried it into the ice, deep fissures shooting in every direction. Someone, Tristan knew not whether from their company or the Saxons, shouted – "The ice is breaking!" and the air was filled with the sound of the frozen floor being rent into pieces.

It was pandemonium now, as cracks appeared under the feet of the Saxons and the ice split, sending dozens of them into the freezing waters. Huge tables of ice rose up and crushed others, and the whiteness of the snow was stained crimson with blood. The air was filled with the sound of the ice breaking and the more awful sound of men screaming as they were either crushed to death or plunged into a watery tomb to be ignored by their comrades as every man sought to preserve his own life. All Tristan could do was fire arrow after arrow into the already confused and dying ranks of the Saxons, and watch in horror as Dagonet also fell into the lake, only to have Arthur latch onto the back of his armor and strain to heave him out. Other knights joined them, Bors and Galahad and Gawain racing across the ice to help Arthur drag Dagonet out of the water.

With the Saxon threat immobilized as the infantry struggled to move free of the treacherous ice, the knights could concentrate on rescuing Dagonet and pulling him to safety. But they were too late. Even as Tristan stood back with Lancelot and Guinevere, he could see that Dagonet was deathly pale, both from blood loss and his exposure to the bone-chilling water. Bors slapped his face to wake him, but there was no response.

"Dagonet! Stay with me! Stay...with me!" The low cry of agony that came from deep in Bors' chest seemed to echo around the small canyon, echoing even above the sound of the ice that was still settling. At the edge of the ice, Lancelot's face twisted and Tristan clenched his jaw, turning his face away from the scene of death and grief that was playing out before him. Only Guinevere remained active, her face twisted in anger as she fitted a last arrow to her bow and sent it flying to land in a Saxon soldier's chest. Cynric glared at her from across the ravaged water, a bloody slash running from the corner of his right eye to beside his nose. In his strong features Tristan once again saw Toril and glanced towards the cliffs, searching desperately for her, for something that would get his mind off the fact that Dagonet - the gentle giant who had been a brother to him for fifteen years - was now a corpse.

All that caught his attention was the sight of Theron, wheeling high above them. Tristan watched for several seconds and eventually saw Karina join the hawk, the two birds soaring together above the lake and their respective masters. Then he turned his attention back to Arthur and the knights who were struggling to lift Dagonet onto their shoulders. Tristan's voice was rough when he spoke to Guinevere.

"Go get his horse. The black." The girl wordlessly turned and ran to where Jols had tied their horses, and Tristan and Lancelot stepped forward to join their fellow knights in lifting Dagonet above the earth.

The five knights and their commander carried the big man to the horse who had faithfully bore him through countless battles. Guinevere stood at its head, calming the large beast as it scented death and shied away, holding it steady and murmuring to it as they laid Dagonet's body as gently as they could across the saddle, covering him with his rich black cape. The Woad woman then wisely surrendered the reigns to Galahad, and moved away to gather the abandoned bows and arrows so that the six remaining warriors could look at each other with stricken expressions on their faces.

No one spoke for a long time; only looked at each other and at the man who had been such a big part of their lives. Tears streamed openly down Bors' cheeks, Galahad buried his face in the horse's neck, and Arthur, Lancelot, and Gawain each roughly brushed tears out of their eyes. The only one who showed no emotion was Tristan, save for the clenching and unclenching of his jaw as he stared woodenly at Dagonet's body, his heart beating furiously and the blood roaring in his ears. Finally Arthur sighed and spoke.

"Let's go...back to the fort." He was about to say _home_, but five pairs of eyes had swung his way before he could complete his sentence, and he wisely mended his words. There was no home for his men in Briton; and the one who had followed him most willingly was now the one who would never see home again. He turned and walked towards his horse, mounting swiftly and pulling Guinevere up in front of him, waiting only until his men followed suit before turning to follow the caravan.


	8. Chapter 8

They rejoined the wagons sometime later; riding close enough to protect if needed, but far enough away to escape the curious gaze of the peasants. No one spoke as Arthur left to hold a hurried conversation with Jols and Ganis, instructing them on what to do next. He deposited Guinevere into one of the wagons, and rejoined his knights. Still nothing was said.

The only sound was the dull clopping of the horses' hooves on the hard earth; a hollow, flat sound that was echoed in each of their heartbeats as they surrounded Dagonet's body, shielding it from prying eyes. And although none of them would admit it, they all felt the need to be as close to what was left of the gentle man as possible.

For the first time that he could remember, Tristan was filled with an almost overwhelming need to be with the living. Despite the fact that he preferred to be alone, even the solitary scout knew that he needed human companionship to stay sane. Most often it was in the form of the knights he rode with, sometimes in the form of a tavern wench.

But that wasn't what he craved now, not what he desired so deeply that it was difficult for him to keep his breath steady and not panicked.

_Toril_. He needed to see her, to hold her in his arms, to hear her voice, to make sure she was safe. And despite the fact that one of his dearest friends was dead, Tristan realized that he had never felt so alive, so free, as when he was with the woman he loved.

So with the suddenness and abruptness that accompanied all his decisions, Tristan moved away from the little band of horses, stopping only to conference with Arthur before galloping off into the woods.

_You will always be able to find me, Tristan...if ever you need or want to_. Toril's words from earlier that morning echoed through Tristan's mind as he cantered through the forest, back towards the lake. _Well, I need to find her now, but have no idea where to look._

A flash of white caught his eye just as he finished the thought and he grimaced at the owl's perfect timing. Karina sat serenely on a tree branch to the left of the path, at the entrance to an almost invisible trail into the forest. And without a second of hesitation, Tristan turned Filia down the path into the darkness of the trees, past the owl who just ruffled her feathers at him as he disappeared silently into the woods.

For several minutes, Tristan rode quietly with all his senses on high alert, searching for some sign of Toril but finding none. Just as the path began to curve back towards the south, he caught a glimpse of Medwin from his periphery and heard a whisper behind him: _"Ride for the wall, Tristan."_ He nodded, just the barest flicker of movement, urging Filia into a trot and then a canter, knowing instictively that Toril would keep up. They reached the edge of the forest and charged across the plain in a hard gallop, towards the gate in the wall where the last of Marius' peasants were trailing through. The sight of the Roman guards' surprised faces registered in passing as they thundered through the closing gate, skirting around the lagging peasants and racing for the wagons.

"To the fort?" Tristan called over his shoulder at the woman behind him.

"Just you," Toril replied, already angling towards the sheltering woods. "Too many questions, not enough time. But I'll be here." Tristan nodded, allowing himself just one full look at her as she and Medwin galloped towards the forest, her lean body hunched over Medwin's shoulders in a relaxed pose, urging the huge white horse on with soft words, her cape and hair billowing in the wind. Then he turned Filia and followed the worn road towards the fort, towards his brothers, towards Dagonet's body, and towards his discharge papers.


	9. Chapter 9

After fifteen years of saddling his horse in the stable, in the dark and in the day, Tristan learned to do it by touch, if need be. He could shut his mind off, turn away from what his hands were doing and think about something else. And despite the fact that he wanted to be thinking of anything _but_, his mind kept going over and over the events of the day. The return to the fort. Their discharge papers. Dagonet's funeral. How he had felt as he watched another of his comrades be buried, the aching need to have Toril beside him as he stood at the grave. The numbness that had set in as he went about his usual business, without the sense of purpose he usually had. Nightfall. Gazing at the dark mass of trees in the distance, searching for any sign of Toril. Turning around to see the Saxons moving onto fields he had protected for the last fifteen years.

Tristan knew Arthur would fight. Knew that the man he had followed since he had reached this forsaken island had finally found something greater than Rome to live for. He also knew that nothing would happen until the next day - that these last few hours of darkness would be set aside for warriors to spend with their loved ones, maybe for the last time.

So that's why Tristan was in the stables, saddling Filia with quick, practiced movements. Once she was ready he swung aboard and headed out of the compound, towards the woods where Toril was. He didn't have to go very far - there was a clearing just inside the treeline, a straight line across the field from the dusty road inside the wall.

His heart heavy, Tristan slid off Filia's back and took in the contents of the clearing. It wasn't very big; roughly the same size as his quarters back at the fort. To his right stood Medwin, his long neck lowered so that his nose snuffed gently against the grass. Karina appeared out of nowhere, as usual, and took her place on Medwin's back, staring at Tristan with her unblinking blue eyes. Tristan held her gaze for a moment, then turned to look at the fire that was directly across from him. And at Toril, who was standing on the opposite side, her eyes glinting in the light.

Neither of them spoke as Toril moved slowly around the fire and walked towards him, her face oddly immobile, almost an emotionless mask. Tristan's eyes narrowed slightly at this, but before he could open his mouth to ask, Toril's arms were wrapped around his shoulders, her mouth desperately pressed to his. Caught up in the sweet taste of her lips on his, for a moment Tristan didn't feel the moisture on his cheeks. Pulling back in surprise, he saw tears coursing down Toril's pale face and her eyes so devastated that he felt like a stone dropped into the pit of his stomach.

"Toril..." At the sound of his voice, Toril totally broke down; her hands clutching at his shoulders for support, her face buried in his chest, her slim body heaving with silent sobs. Not used to people turning to him for comfort, Tristan awkwardly patted her back a few times before he gathered her in his arms and settled beside the fire. Then he silently waited until her tears subsided somewhat before gently tipping her face up towards his, searching her blue eyes.

"What is it, Toril?" Toril sighed raggedly before curling into him and resting her head on his shoulder.

"I didn't see, Tristan. When I looked for a way to defeat Cynric, when I looked for a way to get you all safely back to the fort...I didn't see. I saw Dagonet run, I saw the ice break, I saw the death of Cynric's men, but I didn't see Dagonet...I didn't see him die, Tristan. If I had looked, I could have done something, could have prevented it, but I didn't know! And now..." Fresh tears rolled down her cheeks, but she impatiently wiped them away. Tristan shook his head.

"We die, Toril. It is our life - fight well, and die while fighting. But we lost none of those under our protection. Dagonet lived to protect. Even if he had known that death was coming , he would have done the same thing, because it was the only way." Toril's eyes slid shut in defeat, and she rested her forehead against Tristan's for a moment, breathing in his woodsy scent and calming herself. A few minutes later, she looked up again and met his gaze. Tristan waited only another heartbeat to be sure of the look in her eyes before crushing her to him and claiming her lips.

Night flew by on softer wings than Karina's, and in the darkest hour before dawn, Toril left Tristan sleeping by the fire. Silently, carefully, she unbound her blonde hair and brushed it until it shone and fell in soft folds around her hips, replacing her priestess' circlet on her forehead when she was finished and weaving it into her hair so that it would not move. She washed her white limbs with the freezing water that trickled past in a small stream, and rubbed oil into her skin. Finally, Toril stood in the middle of the clearing facing east, naked and gleaming, with her arms slightly lifted, palms forward. Then she began to chant.

She chanted the wild, barren land of her birth, with its sharp mountains and icy fjords. She chanted her life as Cerdic's priestess and the conquests she led him to. She chanted her first vision of Arthur and his knights, her first vision of Tristan, and the war host's journey to this island. She chanted Marius' dungeons; her capture, imprisonment, torture, and rescue. She chanted her relationship with Tristan, and the night they had spent. She chanted all the death she had seen, all the battles she had foretold and participated in. She chanted life. And as she chanted, she felt her spirit rise and expand, filling the clearing around her and soaring above the forest, above the wall, above the enemy war host, the Woads, the peasants, the Romans, and the Sarmatians. She felt her inner sight quicken and expand with her, racing over space and time, searching through the camps, searching the past and the future.

Then, as the sun began to rise red on the horizon, she chanted the coming battle. The departure from the wall. The meeting of Cerdic and Arthur. The decision of the knights. The rejoining of Arthur's war band. The first alliance of the Woads and their future king. And one last time, she chanted death, but a smile pulled at her mouth as she did so. She chanted death, but she also chanted freedom - and she felt her heart lift inside her.

Finally, with dawn's first light creeping into the clearing, Toril turned away from the east and strode towards Medwin, catching a glimpse of Tristan sitting bare-chested and cross-legged by the fire, sharpening his sword. He watched in silence as she marked herself with red paint; a straight line from her forehead, down her face and body. He watched as she dressed herself in leather garments so light they were almost white - trousers and boots that laced to her knees, and a long band of leather that she wrapped tightly around her chest instead of a shirt, careful to bind her long hair to her back as she wrapped. Her wide belt she strapped around her hips, checking for her collection of throwing knives. A dagger was slipped into the sheath at her belt, and another slid into the top of her right boot. A great broadsword in its scabbard was strapped across her back, a quiver full of arrows attached to it within easy reach. Her longbow she left attached to the packs across Medwin's shoulders. When she was ready, she turned to Tristan and saw that he had also dressed and was holding Filia's reins loosely by his side.

"What did you see?" Toril gathered Medwin's reins in her hands, grasped his mane and swung onto his back.

"Death. And freedom." Tristan nodded once, and swung onto Filia's back and led the way out of the forest without another word.


	10. Chapter 10

Death and freedom. That is what Toril saw as she chanted in the early morning hours, face to the rising sun. How many times had she stood like that, waiting, watching, learning...she didn't know. All she knew now was the battlefield. She stopped looking ahead, stopping looking behind, stopped looking anywhere but the here and now. The _twang_ of her bowstring as she shot with Guinevere's archers, the surge of her muscles as she ran, screaming, into the fray. And now, to the end of all things, to the deadly dance she had lived her entire life to perform.

She had perfected it, over the years. Not perfected it by necessity, like Tristan had, through constant war and fighting, but perfected it nonetheless. She had sought out the best warriors Cerdic's army had to offer, and learned from them until she was as deadly or more deadly. Some had to be cajoled, some had to be threatened, but all of them had eventually given her the tools she needed to dance this one final time.

Toril knew it would be the last time. What she saw that morning guaranteed her that - a Britain united under one ruler, one great king. Woads, Romans, and Sarmatians would live as brothers, and there would be no need to fight. Because they would be free.

Her pulse quickened and she grinned, savagely, as she fought. She would be free! No more servitude to a bloodthirsty man. No more predicting and planning his battles and telling him who was weakest, who was easiest to destroy. No more loathing for the man she would have been forced to marry. She and Tristan could live together in peace, going wherever the wind took them.

_Tristan_...out of the corner of her eye, she caught a glimpse of the man as he prowled towards another group of Saxons, his sword bloody and dripping gore, held comfortably in his strong hands. _His_ dance was deadly and feral and utterly captivating to watch, and her heart fluttered within her. Such a man, this one...such a mystery, such an opponent, such an ally. She would be proud to stand beside him for the rest of her days, proud to bear his children, proud to teach them the ways of their warrior parents.

As dark and wild and silent as the clearing he was conceived in, Tristan's son would be as deadly as his father. Toril had seen that in the morning light, as well.

_Then..._

Toril faltered.

Then Cerdic was there, searching for Arthur, killing Woads as he stalked through the masses.

Then Tristan was there, with his eyes on the Saxon leader.

Then Toril could only watch.

* * *

Their fight took eons and seconds, both at the same time. Toril felt frozen to her spot for a year, but in reality it was only a few heartbeats until she was running across the field towards her former master and the man she loved. 

_Not your fight, not your fight... _her heart beat out a warning to Tristan as she ran, but by the time she reached him, Cerdic had already disarmed him, already crippled his sword arm, and already sent him to crawl in the dirt like an animal. With a scream and a flying leap, she intercepted the stroke that would have sent Tristan's head flying, and her blade crashed into Cerdic's with a sound that rang over the entire field. Anger, then shock and recognition ran over the Saxon king's face as he realized who had stopped the kill.

"You!"

Then Toril was fighting for her life like she never had before, her anger and fear making her movements choppy, not fluid. A feral grin crossed Cerdic's face.

"You hate me? You want to kill me because you think you're better than me? Better than your people?"

Toril bared her teeth at him. "That would make me like you, _lord_, and I am nothing like you." Cerdic barked a short, rough laugh, and his sword swung dangerously close to Toril's legs, making her jump back. "Then that means you fight for love, girl. Love for that dark knight? Not a wise choice."

Cerdic pressed his attack, his huge broadsword cutting through the air and whistling as it missed Toril's shoulder by a hair's breadth. Toril spun away, but the action threw her off-balance and she stumbled, only to be caught by Cerdic's hand as he raised the other and delivered a tremendous backhanded slap that sent Toril spinning to the ground, stunned. As she fell, she saw Cerdic stalking towards Tristan again, and heard her own voice scream in denial.

The earth whirled around her as she tried to rise, tried to fight, tried to get to Tristan, tried to do _something_... she unsteadily gained her feet and turned, clutching her sword with both hands and numbly lifting it to fight, stumbling towards Tristan at the same time. But he was just beyond her reach, and her former lord pulled Tristan to his feet in view of both Arthur and herself.

For one eternal moment, her eyes locked with Tristan's. In that moment she poured her heart and her soul out to him, telling him things she never even knew she needed to. And she saw Tristan respond, with eyes dulled by pain and half-covered by his shaggy hair. They spoke volumes in the micro-seconds it took for Cerdic to whirl in a deadly circle, slashing his sword across Tristan's chest in a death-stroke. Toril was close enough that the backlash caught her as well, slicing across her stomach in a deep gash.

Toril kept her feet through sheer force of will, stumbling forward with her eyes on Arthur. The Roman commander watched helplessly as in her final moments of strength, Toril raised her sword to her face in a warrior's salute to her king. At her periphery, she could see Cerdic stalking in front of her, obstructing her view of the noble leader of knights.

Then...everything went silent. Toril looked down in shock to see...Tristan's...sword, buried almost to the hilt in her belly. Her blue eyes rose sluggishly to meet Cerdic's fierce face as he laughed, then her knees buckled and she fell for miles, finally hitting the ground half on top of Tristan. Blood bubbled lazily at the corner of her beloved's mouth, but his gaze was on something above them.

"Look..." Toril turned her eyes away from his face and looked up to see Theron and Karina far above them. She smiled, convulsively, and found Tristan's hand with her own.

"Free..."

And far above them, the birds wheeled and dove, free to go wherever the wind took them.


End file.
